


The Invitation

by Tammany



Series: Good Boy, Mycroft. [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Consensual, First Time, M/M, Orgasm Control, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24978274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Post-season 4, post-Euros. Mycroft has left his job. Sometime later he contacts Greg, inviting him to a meal at the Ritz. He's got his reasons.This is consensual. It's probably the first of a total of two or three, assuming I finish.Mycroft thinks he wants something. Greg's going to make good and sure he thinks through what he's asking for.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Good Boy, Mycroft. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808014
Comments: 5
Kudos: 60





	The Invitation

It was a sign how completely Mycroft’s world had fallen apart. First there was Eurus, and the months after Eurus. The slow admission of suffering life-long trauma. The resignation from his position.

And then the months of regret, as he saw that all he efforts to prepare his protégés to follow in his footsteps had been to no avail. How were those clever, subtle people to do more than look at Donald Trump and the Trump America and shudder and gasp? How were they to deal with Brexit? And (God help him) Boris and Lafarge. And then Coronavirus. And then the economy wandering like a lost sheep looking for new pastures.

He had become a hermit, by the end. Alone and lonely and grieving for all that he had been unable to prevent.

So it was a sign when Mycroft Holmes made an appointment with DCI Greg Lestrade—the first time they’d met in many months, since John and Rosie had moved back into Baker Street.

“Diogenes,” Greg asked, as though they were back to the same old normal they’d once practice. A meal, a bit of gossip regarding Sherlock, a quick discussion of the state of London’s security, and then nothing.

“No,” Mycroft said. Then, quietly, he said, “It’s discreet, but the wrong sort of discreet.”

“Having to do with precise and distinct measurements and numbers?”

Mycroft chose not to rise to the quip. “I had thought perhaps a private room at the Ritz.”

Greg whistled low under his breath. “Pricey.”

“I’m paying.”

“Not quite what I meant. I can afford to go Dutch. But…If it’s so private why not just feed me at your Pall Mall flat? Or that hulk of a mansion in Oxford?”

“I prefer a bit of protective distance for this,” Mycroft said, and said no more about it, even when Greg prodded. Instead he said, “Wear something sufficient for the Ritz, but comfortable. And clear your schedule. This could be brief, or it could take a long time. I have no idea which.”

So on the appointed day Greg dressed himself in a light summer suit in pale blue, with a royal blue tie and sparkling white shirt and matching face mask, and took a taxi down to the Ritz for fear whatever happened next left him too drunk or dismayed to drive himself home. He entered into the primary restaurant, gave his name, and was ushered down thick carpeted corridors to the room Mycroft had reserved for them: a small private dining room looking out over London, in what appeared to be a larger private suite.

Mycroft Holmes was dressed in the classic ice-cream suit of a gentleman in the tropics. His shoes were pale canvas Oxfords. His hat, a sinfully small-weave Panama, sat on the sideboard. His own white mask lay loose at his throat.

The two greeted each other, took time to order drinks, and sat at the table. When the Ritz staff had left to give them time to consider the menu, they were at last alone. Greg looked at Mycroft.

“Well?” He grinned, more curious than wary.

Mycroft, turning a glass of water gingerly, cleared his throat. “Perhaps later, after we’ve eaten. How have you been lately? Busy? I noted you’d at last received a well-deserved promotion.”

“Slows me down. It’s really their shove toward the day I retire. ‘Get the old man off the streets, bring in some young blood.’ But I like it. Had enough time to think about how the job should be done. Havin’ a good time with it. Happy to see Sally pass her exams and get my old spot.”

“Yes. Anthea’s been doing quite well as my successor. Insofar as anyone can ‘do well’ in a government position at this time. She’s smart enough to keep her head down. Loyal enough for me to hope she offering some vital resistance.”

They chatted in that sort of professional style as the meal was ordered and eaten. Mycroft went light, and for a rare change guided Greg through a similarly light repast. They drank prosecco, ate substantial Crab Louis salads served with fresh, ripe peaches sliced at the side.

All the while Mycroft watched his guest with fixed eyes…

There was the faintest pink glow to his cheeks. Greg watched as his host stroked the silverware, twisted the stem of his glass, and picked restlessly at his napkin.

When at last the meal was cleared away, and a bottle of brandy left out between two brandy glasses, Greg cleared his throat.

“So—this obviously isn’t about business, or everyday social matters. We’d already be talking about it. So—what’s your concern? You brought me here for something.”

Mycroft did blush, at that, and drank down the last of his brandy quickly, before pouring himself another. He jerked his chin high, and met Lestrade’s eyes. “I am in possession of certain information regarding you. Before we go further, I’d like to confirm it.”

Lestrade’s face went still. He leaned back in his chair, studying the man on the other side of his table. “I see. And given that lead-in…yes. I have indulged in sexual activities many would consider perverted. Not that I think you doubted your sources. Thank you for giving me the option of denying it, had I wished to.”

“Perverted. May I assume you mean you take part in BDSM activites?”

Lestrade didn’t move, just smiled a devil’s smile. “Yes.”

“Dom?”

“Switch, actually. But usually dom. Why? It’s legal, at least so long as I don’t peddle my arse or my partners’ on the streets. I am…discreet. It hasn’t interfered with my profession. What’s your interest, Mike?”

He expected the other man to snap back, correcting his use of the nickname, or quibbling over the legality of the life. Instead his eyes fluttered closed, then opened resolutely. He rose from the table, walked around to Greg, and dropped heavily to his knees, dropping his head.

“Take me. Please. I need a Master. I need…to be disciplined.” His voice shook with fear. “Please. I don’t know anyone else I could trust, and I can’t do it for myself anymore. I need someone to punish me. Use me. Hurt me. Please.” He met Greg’s eyes, then, and the anguish there was clear as the tears beginning to flood over his lids and onto his cheeks. “Please,” he rasped, “I don’t know who else to trust…”

“You didn’t pick Irene?” The words popped out without a second thought. “She worked for you. You can blackmail her in a second. She’d do it in a dead second. And she’s the best, Mike. Why not Irene?”

Mycroft shook his head, fiercely. “Besides not submitting to my brother’s nearest thing to a wife? Don’t be ridiculous! And how can I be properly dominated by someone I can control myself? Willing suspension of disbelief is one thing. But she and I both know I can turn her to my will any time I want.”

“You can outbuy me, Mike. You have the clout to get me fired—or hired. To turn me out of my flat. You may no longer be the British Government, but you are more powerful than I will ever be.”

Mycroft drew a neatly folded set of papers from his inner jacket breast pocket, and handed them to the man he knelt to. “Here. See if this solves things. I’ve already had a copy signed and put on file.”

It took far too long for Greg to grasp the full intent of the legal paperwork. When he did, he said, “Mike…I’m not sure that’s even legal. If you died, surely Sherlock or your parents would question the state of affairs. I know the Met would start studying the cause of your death pretty closely. This is cause for murder! You’re handing over your life, your legal rights, your fortune, your property….”

“Yes. And making it very difficult for me to change that decision. You would become my guardian, my legal executor, and my heir. Every legal choice I could ever make would be yours first,” Mycroft said. “You could live on my property, use my possessions, spend my money, deny me all legal choices from here on out. Or sell everything. Walk away leaving me without a penny.”

“Mike…that’s like being some crazy cult leader. I mean…”

“I want you to be my Master. I want it to have teeth.” His voice shook so hard…

Greg drew a deep breath, folded the papers, and set them aside. “Too much. Too much right now.” He stood, shoved his chair back, and moved away gingerly, careful his brown shoes didn’t even brush the knees of Mycroft’s radiant white suit. He took a fast pace around the room, glancing at the suite beyond. “I assume that’s why we are here, with a private dining room and a private suite? So I can give you a test ride?” His tone was brusque, with a note of irked policeman woven in. “You aren’t as meek as you think, expecting me to perform on command.”

“That’s not what I…that’s not how I meant it.” Mycroft stayed, kneeling, hands clenched, wringing his fingers.

“Are you aware that in all that legal language, there’s not one suggestion of limits? Or at least having a DOM/sub private contract? I don’t know what you like, Mike. Or what you want? What are your limits? What’s your safeword?”

“No limits and who cares?” Mycroft snapped, suddenly furious in his desperation. “Do whatever the hell you want, just use me. And I don’t care if I safeword. I don’t want a safeword. I want to know that even if you’ve put me in the hands of gang rapists who are making me lick shit off the floor, I can’t escape. Own me, Greg. Use. Me. Hurt. Me. I can’t live this way, anymore. It was bad enough before everything went to hell, and I couldn’t stop any of it. It was bad enough thinking of your weight pushing me down, your cock up my bum, your collar around my neck. Your whip on my back. Your ropes tying me in place. I woke up sweating when I first heard what you did. What you do. Now? When I deserve everything—anything you could do to me? I don’t need a safeword. I don’t want to be safe. I want to be owned by the best man I ever knew. The most honest judge of personality I have ever encountered. Take me, dammit. “ Drooping, then, he just cried, quietly, broken…”Please, take me.”

Greg stopped his pacing and turned, eyes troubled. “Have you ever subbed before, Mike? Ever?”

Mycoft’s voice, soft and teary, remained wry. “Beyond fantasy? Lifelong fantasy?” he shrugged. “Once. Twice. Before I left work, there were too many risks. I had to be able to trust my Dom for England, not just for me.”

Greg walked slowly, approaching Mycroft from behind. Watched as Mycroft realized his chosen Master loomed above him, and watched him struggle to remain still and submissive. He brushed Mycroft’s buttocks with the tip of his toe…and studied the shiver that took the man, listened to the quality of the gasp that escaped him.

After long thinking, he said, “Let’s explore the subject. Mycroft, I want you to get up, turn to face me, and undress. Slowly. I’m not going to ask for a hootch dance, this time. Maybe some other time. But I am going to ask you to undress without hiding your body or trying in any way to avoid letting me see your body. For now, for this afternoon, it’s mine. Not yours. All right?”

“Yes.” Mycroft scrambled to his feet, and turned to face Greg. “You won’t be sorry, DCI Lestrade. I promise.”

“You’re not making any promises right now, Mike. You’re just exploring something with me. I only ask two things of you: do what you’re told, and pay attention—honest attention—to how you feel. Oh. Three. And that you hide nothing: do as you’re told, let me watch, answer any questions I ask. No secrets today. All right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, nice and slow, strip.”

“What do you want me to do with my clothes?”

“Fold them appropriately and put them on my dinner chair.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Try just ‘Greg.’ For now.” A small smile flickered, raising boyish dimples. “In fact, it might prove more if you force yourself to think about giving yourself this way to me, not to a Dom. You’re asking Greg Lestrade, your old associate, to watch you strip, order you around, and tease you till you beg.”

Mycroft flushed scarlet, and only barely forced himself not to look away. “Yes…Greg. You’re right. That’s harder.” Hands shaking he removed his lovely white ice-cream suit, his shoes, all his trimmings. Down to cotton vest and soft, billowing underpants. He paused, hands unsure where to start.

Greg, studying him with sober eyes, said, softly, “You can stop for a moment, baby.” He walked close—closer. He stroked a hand down the cool cotton of Mycroft’s boxers, along his outer hip. “Pretty boy, you’re nervous.”

Mycroft started to deny it, but Greg gave him a short, sharp slap on the thigh. “Honesty, baby. You promised.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I’m nervous.” Then, sharp-voiced, “Who wouldn’t be? All kinds of first times here.”

Greg chuckled. “Exactly. You’re nervous. This is your first time. First time with me. First time doing this. You’re sweet, and shy, and scared, and sexy as hell. If we keep on, I’m going to have such a good time teaching my little boy how to behave.” He stroked Mycroft’s thigh again, then moved closer, let his hands wander, slip under the waistband of Mycroft’s pants, down, to cup his buttocks.

“Mine. If we do this, Mike, these are mine from now on. I decide how they’re used, not you. I decide who sees them, and who uses them. Would you be able to endure being loaned out? Sharing a partner is part of the scene for a lot of men and women. Could I share you?”

Mycroft shivered, as his master explored his body. He thought of it: all the many ways it could happen. “The truth? I would rather not be gang raped by bikers while the club looked on. Or raped to death by vengeful enemies. But I might actually enjoy being handed around at your will, so long as my health and survival were still a priority.” He paused, and then said, “I would do it for you even if you wanted to kill me, though. I mean it. I want to be your sub. Your complete sub.”

“Mmm. Good to know. All of it’s good to know.” Greg stroked the erection that had bloomed as Mycroft thought of being shared. “All of it’s information, boy…” He stroked, gripped, gently tugged. Mycroft gasped, and wriggled, and moaned. Greg gripped the pants and pushed them down. “Step out, sexy toy.”

Mycroft stepped out, feeling the chill air on his cock and balls. Greg grabbed his vest and swept it up, saying “arms up” as he completed stripping his boy. “Let’s see what I’ve got here. Mmm. Freckles. I like freckles. No—stay still. I want to look at it all. Get those hands out from your tackle. Cross your arms if you have to, but you have no right to modesty. You’re stealing from me. Most DOMs don’t like their boys and girls stealing their ownership of all of it, including the right to look. No. That way covers your titties, and I own those, too, and the sight of ‘em. Better. Not hiding anything vital. Turn around, baby. Lean over.”

Mycroft heard Greg putting on hospital gloves, which squeaked like rubbed balloons and set his teeth on edge. A finger prodded at him, right over his arsehole. It was covered with cold slick. Prod. Prod. Prod. Then—in.

He had so seldom made love. Only twice been penetrated. Never been prepared, or played with. He gasped again, and was embarrassed to hear a whimper of mixed fear and desire.

Behind him Greg gave a warm, desirous rumble. A moment later he’d added a second finger, with a faster, more assertive grunt. He thrust, now, imitating the rhythm and energy of sex. Two fingers, IN-out, IN-out, fingertips churning to tick Mycroft’s prostate. Mycroft fought back a moan.

Two fingers pulled out, and a hand slapped HARD on Mycroft’s bum. “Who owns you, boy?”

“You…” Mycroft shuddered. “I…”

“I want to hear it. All. Don’t you DARE hide it unless I tell you so. Now, bend over.”

Three fingers, thrust hard and fast. Mycroft’s moan was rough, open, needy, but also afraid, and insecure.

Three fingers, curved like a comma, stroking his prostate with a steady, coarse security. Greg’s other hand came around and gripped Mycroft’s cock and balls tight, pressure as attractive and intriguing as the friction that assaulted him from behind. He squirmed and panted, his knees went weak.

Greg stopped. Cold. Stood again.

“Stand up, sugar. That’s right. Hmm. Looka that boner. Come here, I wanta check out that package."

Mycroft fought to rise. His cock was still rigid, his balls tucked high with desire.

Greg patted those hard, round balls with the same kind of firm, hearty fondness a man pats a good dog. “Those are nice, boy. Nice chubby bubbies.” He walked past Mycroft, going over to Mycroft’s former chair, which remained empty of clothing. He sprawled in the chair, demonstrating superb man-spread, knees wide, crotch open. He opened a thermador that had been set out with the drinks, and withdrew a cigar. He jerked his chin, gesturing Mycroft over.

Mycroft, not wanting to be seen as unwilling, scurried over.

Greg handed him the cigar, and said, “Prepare that. Take your time. Get it nice and warm for me. Take your time lighting it. Meanwhile I’m going to light this, too. His hand gripped Mycroft.

Together they moved.

Greg’s hands were warm, and strong. He squeezed Mycroft’s cock with the firm, affectionate security a man used on a cigar, fondling it, observing it. He bent forward, eyes laughing up into Mycrofts', and mouthed the fine skin of his cock. He tongued the tip of his cock. His fingers moved up and down.

Shaking Mycroft said, “I can’t. I’m….you’re.” Then “Oh, my God…”

“When do I get my cigar, sweet buns?”

Mycroft struggled to even understand the sentence. He was on fire. His cock was shouting at him.

Greg leaned back, but kept hold of Mycroft’s cock, fingers fondling satin skin. “Shhh, pretty. Shhh. Light my cigar, boy.”

Hands shaking, Mycroft managed to complete the task. He handed the cigar to Greg.

Greg smirked, still tracing the veins of Mycroft’s cock. "Pass it to me, baby doll. With your mouth.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake. You’re just trying to be shocking!”

“Booooy.” Greg’s voice was warning. His fingers became less gentle. He frowned at his boy.

“Now.”

Mycroft leaned over. It was awkward, and difficult. Greg managed to collect the tobacco shaft, though, and to suck. He straightened, and released Mycroft’s cock.

“Good cigar. Now—let’s see you light your cock for me, love. I want to see you light your wand.”

Mycroft blinked, and frowned, mind still trapped by the smell of Greg Lestrade’s hair, his neck, the touch of lips and tongue as Mycroft worked to pass the cigar mouth to mouth. “What?”

Greg snorted. “So much for trying to talk dirty. Play with yourself, Mike. I wanna sit here and smoke my cigar and drink nice brandy while my boy plays with his penis and anything else that helps him get it up. Pinch your nipples. Finger your arse. Fist your balls. Give me a show Mike. Look-there’s an ottoman over there in the living room. Pull it over and sit in front of me and play with yourself.”

Mycroft nearly stomped the floor. “You’re the one playing with me. Be serious.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “I am serious. I want to watch you play with yourself, boy, and I want you to do it when I say, how I say, without any strop. Now fetch the ottoman and get going.”

Mycroft’s mouth tightened. “Are you suggesting you’re really going to do more than this Christmas panto? What a surprise. The renowned Dom in London and this is all you can do?”

Greg considered him. A small smile quirked the outer edge of his mouth.

He drew the cigar out of his mouth, leaving it to rest in an ash tray. He stood.

Mycroft didn’t know how the man managed to down him so fast. An ankle hook—he knew that much.  
But in seconds Mycroft was on the carpet. Then up, in an armlock that allowed Greg to drag him easily across the room to his own original chair, where Mycroft’s clothing lay. Then Mycroft’s face was mashed up against the elegant harp-back of the chair, his arms slipped between the empty space that edged the frame-back, and Mycroft’s own tie was recovered from the heap of Mycroft’s clothes.

And then his own braces had tied his legs to the chair’s front legs, forcing his arse high in the air.

And then? Mycroft’s own belt, all blond leather braid, came down on his buttocks.

It was not fast. It was not a game. Greg was not playing.

Silent, he brought the halved loop of leather down, over and over, the rough texture of the braided leather stinging and gripping with each blow.

Mycroft, entirely unprepared, wailed and swore, then snarled, “Stop!”

Instantly Greg stopped.

Then he said, softly, “This is your first chance to decide something, Mycroft. It won’t be your last. But it is your first. Do you want to be my sub? Think about it.”

Mycroft swore under his breath. His face hurt, pressed into the carved wood and wire of the chair-harp. His entire back complained at being arched up like this, face in the air, legs tied to the chair front.

He had been annoyed at the lazy, light-weight play, feeling as though his decision was being treated far too lightly. He had presumed to try to take over.

He was now considering that first, Greg was not doing anything without seriousness; he was testing his boy as he ought. As he must. And, Mycroft realized, his boy was on the verge of failing out. No one was obliged to take a DOM’s sub seriously except the DOM, and only when the DOM felt like it. Greg could take Mycroft to a club in a clown suit and let the nuts in furry costumes take him, while the entire club giggled and made suggestions, and that would be well within the spirit of the game.

His DOM was punishing him for disobedience and insolence. The question was, was he going to take his DOM seriously. Very seriously…

“Greg, could I think about this for a second? May I? Please? I think I need to consider my actions.”

The belt stirred softly across his buttocks, tickling them gently. “Goooood boy, Mikey. That’s a good boy. You take all the time you need. Hell, you can even go home and call me back in three weeks and start over. But think, you freakin’ genius. This is not the game you think it is.”

“Yes, Greg. I just need a few minutes.”

He used his time well. This was not his fantasy sex, years suppressed and hidden, with a DOM who had to do what Mycroft-the-Dreamer said. This was Dom Greg, who had years of experience mastering subs, and who had a very good idea what it would take to survive years as his sub, at the level Mycroft was begging for.

After a few minutes, Mycroft said, “Have I failed already? Am I unfit for this?”

Greg gave a small chuff. “Hell, no, baby. You’re doing reasonably well for a virgin. You’re clueless. But you were getting pretty hard and sweaty and we’ve barely started. No. You haven’t failed.”

Mycroft thought some more, then said, voice husky, “Then I want to go on, Greg. Whatever you choose, whenever you like, whether I understand or not.”

Greg gave an approving grunt, then said, quietly, “Then let the flogging begin.”

And the belt came down on Mycroft’s bum again, sharper, harder, sharper than even before.

He kept a steady drumming up. Then he paused, gripping Mycroft’s balls and cock between his thighs. He stroked, and rubbed. He slid on a hospital glove again, and without untying Mycroft, he entered his arse again, stroking and poking and thrusting.

Mycroft knew he was hard. He could feel his cock jounce and bounce, tip flipping against the edge of the dining room chair, as Greg finger-fucked his arse.

“Close your eyes, Mike,” Greg said, without stopping his task.

Mycroft did.

“Good boy. Now, imagine what we look like. Thing about it. Me dressed. You naked, arse high, cock swinging, me fucking your butt this way. Now, tell me, is it hot?”

It was hot. Mycroft moaned his agreement.

“Words, Mike. Use your words.”

“Yes. It’s hot.”

“Tell me, is it hot to think of me whipping your arse some more?”

“Yes…”

“Ok. Now, sweetie, I am going to take your arse. For the first time tonight. I’m not going to bother getting naked for it. It’s not worth it. I’m just going to fuck you here, until you come. And then I’m going to untie you and make you lick my shoes—and then order you off to the showers. For now. Is that OK sweetie? Or do I need your permission?”

“You don’t need my permission,” Mycroft said, hard as a rock at the thought of all of it.

“Good boy,” Greg purred. “What a good boy.”

And then there was the sound of a zipper. And then Mycroft was impaled on what somehow felt like a full-sized torpedo.

He knew Greg’s actual measurements. He had Greg’s medical record. He was substantial but nothing like what he felt like, in Mike’s barely lubed near-virgin arse. Greg was on him…fingers reaching around his ribs, pinching his nipples tight. Reaching under his belly and playing with his cock and balls, teasing and tormenting, and doing whatever he liked. He raked his fingernails down Mycroft’s ribs. He didn’t play with Mycroft’s body, he played his body, like a jazzman plays a bass cello: badunk-a-dunk-dunk, with Mycroft squealing and panting and needy, and terrified to come because he’d pissed his owner off once, and he didn’t dare risk being found pushy again. His entire vocabulary shrank down to “Please, please, please, please, Oh, God, please!”

And then the pacing changed just a trace.

Greg’s hips stuttered, rattled, shook, and he voided, hips wild with desire…and his clever fingers? One gave a wicked, painful twist to one of Mycroft’s tits. The other gripped and twisted Mycroft’s knob, and sharp fingernails nipped his skin, and he screamed, and came….

And came…

And came…

And Greg popped his cock back out of Mycroft, and Mycroft still struggled, bound to a kitchen chair, squirming and panting and used.

Seconds later he was unbound, and lying on the carpet, still panting and used.

"Lick my shoes, baby boy."

Mike crept over the carpet and licked. His arse burned-from both whipping and fucking. He felt...light. He felt owned. He felt free of the deep despair that had been suffocating him for months. He licked again, and again, rubbing his face against the mid-range, over-the-counter business shoes. His Master's shoes.

Greg chuckled. “So…you really are quite a slut, aren’t you, Mikey?”

“Yes,” Mycroft managed. “Yours.”

“Maybe,” Greg agreed, with good humor. Then, “Up. Up on your feet. I want you to call the room service to clean up in here. And then I want you to go shower. Take your time. Wash up every inch. Dry off. Then I want you to go take a little nap in the bedroom. I want you nice and rested for the next tests.

Mycroft did exactly as he was told. He fell asleep clean and only slightly damp, buried in clean hotel sheets of very high thread count, knowing that out in the other rooms, Greg was making plans and arrangements. All intended for him.


End file.
